


the weight of water

by TrulyCertain



Series: Armour 'verse [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AU, But with a happy ending, F/M, angsty as all get out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Five years after Alistair was crowned and they were separated by duty and station, Amell returns to Denerim for the end of the Blight's anniversary. It's only one night. Surely they can get through it. It isn't like they're still in love...</p>
            </blockquote>





	the weight of water

 

 

 

_The last girl and the last reason to make this last for as long as I could_  
_First kiss and the first time that I felt connected to anything_  
_The weight of water, the way you taught me to look past everything I had ever learned_  
_The final word in the final sentence you ever uttered to me was love_

\- “Make This Go On Forever,” Snow Patrol

 

He remembers her running towards the Archdemon, teeth bared, as if she wanted the final blow to kill her after all. He remembers the weight of the crown the first time it went on his head, and the way that she looked everywhere but at him, her jaw set, refusing to let him catch her eye.

There are other things, too, like their last kiss before the Landsmeet. She’d been slow, searching, as if she was trying to memorise the feeling, memorise him. He’d wanted to go back to their rooms, but she shook her head and said she didn’t want to, she was tired. When he paused, he realised she looked it, too: worn down, those eyes dull rather than the bright blue he usually knew. She addressed a spot somewhere around his left ear, never looking him in the eye. He pretended not to notice, desperately trying to lighten the mood, and wanted to kick himself. Normally he would have asked her what was wrong, but he had a horrible feeling he knew. He was woken up later by another of the nightmares, and rolled over to see her sitting in a chair by the bed. A book lay barely-read on her lap, and she was just looking at him, her eyes glinting in candlelight. When she saw that he was watching her, their eyes met; there was a moment where he thought she might cry, and then she wordlessly returned to her book.

He remembers her last words as _her_ , before she’d become _the Warden_ and it had all been battle strategies and cold formality. They’d been standing in a quiet room after the Landsmeet, and he’d just told her that he couldn’t be with her. He was halfway through the door when he heard her words, said so quietly he nearly missed them: “I’m sorry. Alistair, I’m so sorry.” He’d walked away, saying nothing. What was there to say?

Most of all, he remembers her walking away from him for the last time, tall and proud, the sun catching off blue and silver armour. So different from the tatty, third-hand splintmail they were both used to. He stood, frozen stupidly, wishing that, just once, she’d look back at him. Once would be enough.

He looks over the letter once more. It’s a form letter from the Vigil’s seneschal, but this one is different from the others. Rather than the usual politely worded refusal, this one says that she will be attending the anniversary ball.

It’s been five years since she ended the Blight, and he still remembers it all. He folds the letter in his hand, puts it aside, and tries to forget.

He should hate her for putting him here, for forcing him to do this. He wishes he could. Instead it’s an old, hollow ache. Sometimes it keeps him up at night, when he’s stuck with an empty bed and just himself for company. He always does his best to get some sleep, even if he rarely succeeds; it wouldn’t do for the King of Ferelden to fall asleep in the middle of casting judgement.

He puts the letter aside, rubs at his brow, and goes to make the final preparations.

* * *

The night arrives sooner than he anticipated, and he spends far too long in front of the looking glass. For his public, of course. He tries not to think of one particular pair of eyes on him. He runs a hand through his hair, dishevelling it from its careful style, and then has to smooth it all into place again. He runs his hands down his shirt, trying to get all the creases out, fingers catching on the fancy embroidery. There was some suggestion of furs and maybe even powdering, but the thought made him wince, and so he asked for a relatively simple ensemble. He’s already had to ask the fussing servants to leave; he may be terrible at diplomatic negotiations but he can dress himself, thank you very much.

He looks in the mirror and barely recognises the man who stares back. He’s cleanly shaven, not the occasionally haphazard job he’d manage with a shield and a dagger that was always growing out by early afternoon. His chin’s up like he’s going to a fight, his back straight. Isolde always used to berate him for slouching, but there’s none of that here. And his eyes… They’re resigned, miserable. He looks like he’s going to the gallows, albeit with rather nicer tailoring than your average convict. Maker, he looks like he’s never laughed in his life. He - the old him, used to dented armour and blisters - would probably avoid himself in a room. Or try a bad joke to lessen the utter misery.

He sighs, and then tries on a polite smile that feels more like a grimace. He braces himself, and then makes his way down to the great hall.

The announcer spots him - eyes like a hawk - and starts with the usual spiel. _Alistair Theirin_ \- and since when has that ever been his name, anyway? - _King of Ferelden, Hero of the Fifth Blight, Grey Warden, definitely not an annoying, lanky mistake raised in stables, so on, so on_ , and… He tenses as he catches the last descriptor. _Templar._

If she really is here - if that letter wasn’t just a polite dismissal - then she won’t be pleased.

It’s a peripheral thing, at the corner of his eye. The shine of candlelight on hair, almost bronze, as someone turns their head at the word. He looks, and he sees a woman with a few nobles. Brown hair. Straight back. Tense, uncomfortable shoulders. She shifts, nodding at something one of them has said, almost facing him, and he knows.

She looks beautiful. He always knew she would; it’s one more reason to resent the formal letters, the empty seats, the advisory post she didn’t take, the way she seemed desperate to take the job at Amaranthine. It’s been nearly five years since he could look at her.

He’s never been sure whether she’s beautiful by most standards, but his standards aren’t _most_. She’s still pale from the years in the Tower. He sees those eyes, nervous as she looks over her shoulder, with the long lashes that used to brush her cheeks when she slept. The crooked nose that used to embarrass her, that he’d noticed as she sat by the fire night after night, looking into the flames. The soft mouth that had kissed him, that had told him _I love you_ so many times like it was a fact and a promise all at once. Those long fingers, bare of gloves, with scars and rough fingertips and the gentlest touch he’s ever felt. The curving hips that bring to mind placing his hands on her waist, holding her to him and kissing her until his mouth was numb.

Her hair is just a little longer, brushing her shoulders. As she takes another look around the room, clearly uncomfortable here, he sees that a braid curls around the back of her head, on top of the loose hair, and he thinks he catches a glimpse of something ornamental. Pearls? Beads? Maker, he doesn’t know. It’s more formal than her usual style, and far less dishevelled. He thinks she’s wearing a tabard at first, until he realises that it’s some kind of formal jacket. Blue, and at least parts of it are silk, he thinks. Leather breeches, hugging tight to her legs, leading down to polished black boots with silver lacing. Warden colours, of course.

It’s just unfashionable, just mannish enough to cause a potential scandal. Certainly, it’d never be accepted in the Orlesian court. But he supposes he shouldn’t have expected a dress. She looks like, well, _her_. Albeit a more formal, very uncomfortable her. He almost wants to grin at the thought.

He knows he can’t be doing this. The king can’t be staring at the Hero of Ferelden, looking like he’s drowning and he wants to cling to her. He should look away, and he’s about to -

\- and then she sees him. Their eyes meet across the room, and hers widen slightly, but she doesn’t look away. She looks back at him, surprise written on her face, her mouth slightly open as if she wants to say something to him but can’t.

It’s as if something wakes up in him. Something runs through his veins, and he’s suddenly here, _now_ , present like he hasn’t been in… in nearly five years, he realises. He swallows, his mouth dry, and he’s just considering crossing the room, saying something, anything to her, when she seems to come back to herself.

Her shoulders raise as if she’s taking a blow. Her jaw tenses; he can almost see her gritting her teeth. She glances over to a bunch of chattering arls, turns and makes her way purposefully towards them. Away from him.

She’s right. He shouldn’t be - It’s surprise, that’s all. (Never mind all the nights he’s thought of this moment, of the way she might look and the changes years have given her.)

He’s trying to recover his thoughts when there’s a hand on his shoulder and someone’s saying, “Your majesty.”

Bann… Loren? No, Lorik. The one with the eyebrows. Lorik is saying, “Apparently the Hero of Ferelden is here.”

“Yes,” he manages, barely looking at the man. The Arlessa of Gwaren has joined them, at his other side, and he feels himself being shepherded. He’s so numb that he allows it.

And then they’re stopping and… _Oh_.

“We wondered if you had yet said hello to your old comrade,” Lorik continues.

She turns as she hears them approach, and her face is neutral.

“Warden-Commander,” he says, keeping his voice level. Nothing to see here. The title tastes bitter on his tongue, and he never thought that could happen. He never thought he could be resentful of the order that saved him. (That took her away from him, that brought him to the attention of those in power.)

“Your Majesty.” She can’t quite meet his eye. She does once, and the jolt from it runs down his spine - then she’s talking to his nose again. He wonders if she’s going to start brushing her hair away from her face and mumbling, and all of a sudden he could almost be standing in front of an awkward, scruffy apprentice in Ostagar. Then she says, “It’s good to see you again.” The words are polite, and no-one but him - no-one who hasn’t listened to her for months, spoken to her in the dark when the nightmares were bad - would know how completely insincere they are.

And then there’s a sound, a chime. Oh no.

The music is low at first, a beginning, and he hears a murmur, growing in volume and speed. Someone says, “A dance! A dance for the Blight Wardens.”

He looks around, wondering if there’s some way he can wriggle out of it, but he’s surrounded on all sides by nobles now, drawn by the commotion and the prospect of a spectacle, and they’re cheering him on. They’re making room, an impromptu dancefloor.

Damn.

It’s even worse than he feared. He had a feeling it was what the crowds would want, but he’s not sure he can do it. He looks back to her and feels every inch of the space between them, feels how very large it is. He’s afraid to cross it.

She looks at him, and for a second he sees the fear in her eyes, too, but then it’s replaced by the look she gets when she’s on a mission: that grim determination. It was the same look she had when she put him on the throne. She reaches up, resting a hand on his shoulder, and he suddenly wishes that she was wearing gloves, that he was wearing ceremonial armour, _something_. He feels the warmth of her touch through the fabric of his shirt.

It takes him far too much to look at her, to step closer and raise a shaking hand to her waist. He wraps his fingers around the dip and curve of it. It’s nothing improper in the eyes of the court, but all it does is make him remember how comfortable he used to be touching her, the way he used to marvel at the softness of her skin.

She takes his hand, and she’s trembling, too. Somehow that makes it worse. He meets her eyes, and he can see that she wants to run away - but there’s something else there, too, something that makes him take one more step and begin to move.

The music becomes louder, starts properly, and the nobles converge like a wave, sliding into step, dances beginning all around them. They’re laughing, teasing, leaving just him and his partner in uncomfortable silence.

“It won’t be long.”

The words are quiet, just below the music, and he nearly doesn’t hear them. He stares at her, because it’s the first time she’s sounded like _her_ and not the stiff, awkward Warden-Commander all night. Well, she’s still stiff and awkward, but this is a more familiar kind - _Morgana_ , not _the Warden_. The woman that would much rather be somewhere quiet with a book than prancing for the nobles. (And no, that image isn’t helpful either; it just makes him remember sitting next to her and trying to distract her, or wrapping his arms around her and reading over her shoulder. Back when he was just Alistair, and he could hold her.)

She watches him, outwardly calm, her eyes on his.

He nods and focuses on the steps, not on her. Not on the familiarity of her hand in his and the way it reminds him of long days on the road, clinging to each other. He spent so long feeling clumsy around her - he remembers calling himself _all hands_ , touching her skin with tentative fingers, and looks at the drapings to distract himself.

The music changes, and he knows enough that he nudges her into what’s more of a turn than a spin, slow and awkward, but it still seems to put her off-balance, and she stumbles on her way back to him. He moves to catch her, to take her hand again so that it isn’t that noticeable -

\- but that moves him forwards while she’s regaining her balance and suddenly he’s pressed against her.

She’s warm, soft, and some part of his mind thinks that having her in his arms still feels the same, even after all this time. She’s wearing some sort of scent, subtle, probably one of Leliana’s ideas. It might be rosewater. Some stupid part of him wants to press his face to her neck and inhale. He wants to wrap himself around her, feel her heartbeat, protect her from the prying eyes of the nobles.

… _No_. Maker, no. He can’t, _they_ can’t, this was a terrible idea.

He steps back, and hears her sharp breath. She raises her head to look at him, and the panic in her eyes, the pink in her cheeks - that’s her. The mask slips, and he sees the woman he fell in love with.

And then it gets worse: he sees the way her eyes fall to his mouth, and she bites her lip. It’s only a moment, there and then gone, but he sees it.

It’s not just him.

He could deal with hatred; he was certain that was what he’d be met with. He could deal with cold neutrality. But this…

He remembers his words after he broke her heart. _Too painful. Too tempting._ This, her - all of it.

“Sorry,” he says, so softly that no-one else can hear it. He doesn’t add _Warden-Commander_. Suddenly he doesn’t know what he’s apologising for: his terrible dancing, or this whole situation, or leaving her. “Just… just brazen it out. Move with me.”

He takes another step back, two, but that still leaves him closer than they started out. She watches him in worried confusion, but he takes her hand, keeps dancing, makes himself stop thinking and just move. He keeps going, and she follows his steps, settling back into time.

It’s been too long - a couple of minutes, probably - when he realises that they’re closer than propriety would allow. One of her hands has slipped down to rest on his back, and his hand is still at her waist, but his thumb is stroking the fabric gently, so softly he hadn’t even noticed. She looks at him and her eyes are dark. He sees her lick her lips, and it’s just a small thing, a nervous tic, but he wants to lean down and taste that mouth, to…

The music comes to an end, and so does the dance. 

She steps away from him abruptly, looking like she’s waking up from a trance. He does what’s normal for the situation, for dancing with a rather lovely woman: he takes her hand and kisses it. He doesn’t know why he keeps his eyes on her, looking for her reaction, or why his lips linger for just a little longer than they should. Stupidity, presumption… or something else.

He sees the beginnings of a flush on her face, and then she’s sharply taking back her hand. “Your majesty,” she says, sounding a little breathless, and he’s never hated that title so much in his life. And then she turns, walking towards the great doors, and he knows she’s fleeing. He knows that if he lets her go, he’ll probably never see her again.

He should. He should let _this_ go. But the look in her eyes, after all the thoughts he’s had, the half-made daydreams he’s entertained about her… If there’s any chance…

He follows her, looking as casual as he can, ignoring the stares of the nobles as he makes his way into the grounds after her. The gardens are quieter, and he trails her as she turns a corner, away from the main party.

Eventually she turns and says, “Stop.” She glares at him. “Let me leave.”

“It’s been _five years_.” It’s angrier than he meant it to be, but he _is_ angry; it crept up on him. If she thinks she can just do this to him all over again and then leave, after everything…

She spins on her heel and keeps walking, muttering,“I shouldn’t have come here. I need to…”

“Wait.” It sounds like he’s begging her, but maybe he is. “Morgana - “ It’s not _Warden-Commander_ or _Enchanter Amell_ or _Hero of Ferelden_.

She looks back sharply at that, surprise in her eyes. Pauses. It’s something.

“What was that?” he asks. “What happened in there?”

Her mouth opens, just a little, as if she wants to answer him. Then she closes it. “I… I don’t know.”

It’s a lie. They both know perfectly well.

“Have you got a point to prove?” he demands. “Is this some way of punishing me for - “

She moves towards him, shaking her head. “No. I didn’t mean to…”

“Five years, and not a word, and then you just come back and, and…”

“I thought five years was enough.”Her voice is low, the way it gets when she’s either very angry or in despair. “I thought it wouldn’t hurt.” She blinks furiously. “I was wrong.”

She fixes her gaze on the walls, on the climbing vines, and he suddenly realises that she’s trying very hard not to cry. He’s only seen her in tears twice: the night when she made the decision and put him on this throne, and the night before the Archdemon.

He crosses the space between them without thinking, unable to stand and watch her cry. “Morgana - I was wrong, too.”

She meets his eye. Finally. She looks at him with dawning surprise, and pain, and something deeper. He recognises it instantly from all the times she’s healed him, all the hasty kisses, all the times he’s thrown himself in front of her with a shield. What’s in her eyes can only be described as love.

They stand, staring at each other, and he knows with absolute certainty that he can’t watch her leave him again. Not after this, now he knows. The thought of five more years without her is impossible to bear.  

He doesn’t want to beg, but he will. “Just… Can we talk about this? At least catch up on old times?”

She hesitates, and then says, “Here?”

He swallows. “My quarters aren’t far. I know you aren’t a fan of parties.”

That hesitation again, as she considers it, fear in her face. Not of him, he knows; of this and what it could mean. And then she replies, “Yes. I… I should be going soon, though. Business at the Keep is… is…” She rubs a hand across her mouth. “Pressing.”

He nods. “Follow me.”

He leads her across the gardens without ducking his head, not trying to look inconspicuous. He radiates “important royal business,” hopefully. She follows a pace or two behind, her steps slow. It’s strange; he’s so used to being at her side, or following her. He finds the side doors he’s looking for, nods to the guards, and heads through it and up the stairs. Another flight of stairs, and they come to the door. He unlocks it with the master key, trying not to show the tremors in his hands. He pockets the key, closing the door and pointedly not locking it. He won’t keep her here if she wants to leave.

He lights a few candles - he had to get used to doing it the old-fashioned way, after spending so long with someone who could _think_ flames into existence - and then extinguishes the flame, turning to her. He tries to find the words. The things he’s thought at his desk, late at night, and wondered about - he has to try.

He says, “I want to be with you. If you want me, that is.”

She stares at him. “You can’t seriously think…”

“Why not? I’ve been on the throne for five years. The people seem to like me, for some reason, and the court hasn’t found a good reason to kick me out yet.”

She sets her jaw. “But they’ll find one. I’ll be a perfect reason.”

“No, you’ll just be perfect in general.” He grins at her, ignoring her glare. “You saved the nation. They’ve had time to let that sink in a little.” He breathes out, tries again. “I made a mistake. I thought I could carry on, and duty and the warm glow of ‘I did the right thing and got a palace out of it’ would be enough. But I didn’t do the right thing.” He finds himself reaching out a hand to her. “Stay with me. Just for a little longer.”

“I can’t…” She grits her teeth, her hands twitching at her sides. “Alistair, I _can’t_. If I stay, I’m going to do something stupid.”

He shouldn’t ask. But the way she’s looking at him, the way she said his name…The smart thing would be to turn around and walk away, to find a convenient noble bride, but he’s never been very bright. “Something stupid?” He takes another step, closing the distance between them. A strand of hair has come loose from her carefully pinned hairstyle, and he reaches out to brush it away from her face. She swallows. He traces a hand under her jaw, runs a thumb over her cheek. His voice is lower, rougher than he expected, when he says, “Something like this?”

And with that, he tilts her face up and brings his mouth to hers. It’s soft, gentle, a question or maybe an apology. He draws back, just in case he’s wrong, in case - 

But he feels her fingers curl in his shirt and then she’s pressing closer to him, returning the kiss, deepening it.

His heart pounds in his ears, and he feels everything in minute detail: her hands, one on his back, one searching for a grip on his waist; the way she pulls him closer still; the feel of her, the strength and the softness he’s missed so much. There’s no court, there’s no kingdom, there’s no bloody _king_ \- there’s only him, and her, and this. He runs a hand over her back, her side, until his fingers are underneath that fancy jacket and whatever shirt she’s wearing, until he’s touching the skin of her waist, her hipbone. He hears, _feels_ , her gasp against his mouth, and her leg rises to curl around his hip…

She freezes. She disentangles herself from him, and he doesn’t resist, just steps back a little unsteadily. If she genuinely doesn’t want this, doesn’t feel this, then that’s that. He blinks, trying to recover his mind, wondering what he’s done wrong.

“This…” She swallows. “We can’t. Nothing has changed. I’m a Warden, and you’re… you’re the bloody _king_.”

“I’m still me,” he says, his voice harsh.

She shakes her head. “I know. That’s why it… that’s why it hurts so much. You’re going to find a woman, a queen; you have to. And I can’t watch you - ” She brings a hand to her face.

“Why?” His voice rings hollow to his ears. He sounds gutted, and so very tired. 

She doesn’t look at him, and her voice is muffled by her hand as she says, “Because I love you.” She sounds on the edge of tears.

It’s been so long since he’s heard it. He thought he never would again. He stands there, reeling. And then he smiles, even in this entire mess, because it’s all he needs and Maker, he should have known. He says it without meaning to: “Marry me.”

She raises her head to stare at him. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” He touches her cheek, runs a thumb over her cheekbone, and thanks all that’s holy when she doesn’t pull away. She just watches him, eyes a little wide, her mouth slightly open, and his voice is shaking as he says, “Marry me. Or don’t, if you don’t want to. Just stay. We’ll find a way.”

She shakes her head. “There is no way. We would have found…”

“There is.” And he steps closer to her, tracing a hand under her jaw, because a few brief touches were nowhere near enough and he’s half afraid that if he can’t feel her, she’ll disappear. “I’ll face the whole bloody court if it’s with you. I’ll abdicate, I’ll…”

“Alistair.” There are tears in her eyes.

“Five years ago, I made the worst mistake of my life. I regret it every day. I can’t do it again. I can’t watch you walk away again, I _can’t_. I think it would kill me.”

“I don’t think I can walk away,” she manages, stepping closer, raising her chin and staring into his eyes, bright and frightened like she was the first time, when he’d told her how beautiful she was. She’d rolled the stem of the rose between her fingers, then she’d given him that look, as if she was preparing herself to do something brave. (He remembers the way she’d kissed him afterwards, gently, trembling with the force of it.)

“It’s not exactly a hasty decision. It’s been six years, and I still…” He needs to say it. He’s needed to say it all night, or for five bloody years. “Morgana, I love you.”

He watches it dawn, the realisation of what he’s said, that he means it, that it’s real. The way shock and joy flit across her face. She’s always been good at hiding her emotions from other people, but he spent so long learning to see them. He can, truly, see her. The space between them is so small that if he just reached out and touched her…

So he does, kissing her with all he has, and something in him sings when she responds. She presses against him, running her hand up his neck, through his hair. She takes his face in her hands, deepening the kiss, pulling him closer. Her back meets the wall with a thump, and she pauses. Looks at him, dishevelled, with pink cheeks and dark eyes. He can hear her heavy, uneven breathing in the silence. He waits for her to stop, to say that they can’t -

She kisses him again instead, and then ducks her head to lay soft, open-mouthed kisses along the slope of his jaw, the line of his neck. He feels his pulse jump under her mouth and inhales, the sound sharp in the silence. She speaks, softly, in between kisses. “I used to wake up… and think I was with you. And I’d think, the things I would give… to be in your arms again.”

“I dreamt of you,” he admits, breathless, rough. He feels her stop and draw back to look at him. He lowers his chin, levelly meets her gaze. “All the time, I’d dream of you. I thought it would drive me mad.” Then he’s pressing his mouth to hers again. He stops kissing her to say, “After a while, I figured it’d be a fair trade. Sod Ferelden and the riches, I’d give it all back. I’d take you instead.” He punctuates that with a kiss to the ticklish spot under her ear, and tries not to laugh when he hears the noise she makes, glad that some of the old ones still work. He sobers when he takes her face in his hands, looks into her eyes and tells her, “You’re all I want.”

He remembers saying the words before the first time they made love, when he’d been nervous and afraid he’d disappoint her but so very certain of that. He knows from her indrawn breath, the slight widening of her eyes, that she remembers it too.

She reaches out a hand slowly, hesitantly, and then slides her palm under his shirt, running her hand over his back. The touch is almost assessing, careful, as if she’s trying to map him out and rediscover it all. His eyes flutter shut at the feeling, and he does his best to breathe. “Still strong,” she says quietly.

The words break him from his trance. He opens his eyes to offer her her a half-grin before saying, “I try. I think I’d go nuts just sitting around at banquets.” He runs his fingers up the front of her jacket, and she watches him. Then he starts unbuttoning it, and she reaches up to help him until he slides it down her shoulders and she lets it fall, leaving her in a simple white shirt, probably one made for a man. (Just like she used to wear during quiet nights at camp. Often as not, it was his shirt.) He runs his hands over her forearms, pulling up her sleeves as he goes. Then he returns his hand to its former place at her waist, relearning rather than teasing, sliding his fingers up her hip, across her stomach; feeling the muscles move, the way she trembles under his fingertips. “So are you.”

She blinks, trying to regain her equilibrium, and replies, “Not… too fond of banquets either.”

He laughs as much at the fact that he still makes her like this as the quip. It’s deep and rough; for a moment he doesn’t recognise it as his own.

Something changes in her face at the sound. It becomes something altogether gentler, her eyes sad. “I’ve barely seen you smile - your real smile - since I arrived. Is that something else I’ve taken from you?”

Maybe he should say yes, but he shakes his head. “Being without you might have. But you… you make me so happy.” He doesn’t mean for his voice to shake so much, or for the almost worshipful way he cradles her cheek.

Her mouth opens, and she blinks desperately, looking as if she might cry. “I love you.”

“Then stay with me,” he replies. He runs his hands down her sides, catches her hips to pull her up and wrap her legs back around his waist. Their rightful place, really. He wondered if he’d gotten weaker without a Blight and darkspawn to fight, but this is still something he can do; still something he’s meant to do. It’s reassuring that he can carry her, he thinks. From the low sound she makes, she’s pretty pleased about it too. He holds her steady, looks into her eyes and says, “Please.”

She kisses him and breathes, “I’ll stay.”

He carries her to the bed, remembering nights in camp and in cheap rooms, and though the draperies are fancier this feels so familiar, so right, that he almost wants to cry. It might just be the first real thing that’s happened to him in five years. He lays her down, and as she pulls him with her, tugging at his shirt to remove it and running reverent hands over his skin, it feels like home. “Beautiful,” she murmurs under her breath, and he doubts he was meant to hear it.

He stares at her. “Still?”

The first time she said it, years ago, she looked at him wide-eyed, caught-out. Now she’s calm. “Still,” she confirms, and presses a kiss to his collarbone. “It was the first thing I thought when I saw you. I wondered if I’d imagined it, or misremembered, but you’re…” She pauses, shifts to look at him. Her eyes trace over him as he holds himself above her, and she says, “Even more so now, I think.” She blinks up at him, nervous, like she wonders if she’s lost the right to say these things.  

They hang there, looking at each other, poised on the edge of something. He can hear her breathe. The silence grows between them until he’s afraid it might become insurmountable.

He doesn’t mean to say it, but he does anyway, because when has his mouth ever listened to the rest of him? “Touch me. Please.” It seems like it’s been so long since anyone did that without an edge to it, without curtsies and cosying up to the king. Since someone touched him like they loved him.

She strokes a hand down his cheek, his neck, his chest. Her hands are the same as he remembers: calloused but so, so gentle. Her eyes follow her fingers as she skims over scars, and that look - of focus, and behind it, such sheer _wonder_ , like she still can’t believe he’s hers… This he remembers. Quick, careful healing in camp, nights in their tent, fumbling brushes in the woods… She touches him and she remembers who he is.

Then her hands find their way into his hair and she pulls him down, into a deep, open-mouthed kiss that leaves him gasping, moving forward to chase it when it ends too soon. “ _Alistair_ ,” she sighs.

That does it. He shifts to unlace her shirt, nearly tearing fabric in his haste, mouthing at her neck, and she reaches up to help him.

The Blight’s been spoken of in epics, at dinner parties and dances, but this? This is what he remembers most about the Blight. This is the tale no-one else knows. This is the story written in the half-dark, in the space between breaths, and he recreates it. Every touch, every breath is _I love you_. He’s needed to say it for five bloody years, so now he does every way he can. He recites the words against her skin like a prayer, like the Chant, clinging to her as if she’s something holy, and when he realises she’s doing the same, he wonders how he could have ever lived without this.

* * *

 He almost expects to find her gone in the morning light, like all the other dreams. Instead he comes into wakefulness, still groggy, to find her curled against his side, resting her head on his shoulder and watching him.

He squints at her, half-asleep and still not sure this is real. “I… Hello.”

She gives him a small smile and replies, “Hello.” She pauses, and then she adds, “Should I regret this?”

He gathers her closer. “I don’t. I meant what I said. I want to be with you.”

She looks at him. “I want to be with you, too.” She ducks her head, her smile widening. “And I don’t regret this nearly as much as I should.”

He says, “The Amells are a noble family, you know. Well-respected in the Free Marches.”

Frowning, she asks, “Alistair, what are you getting at?”

“Well… there’s that, and I’m fairly sure that the Hero of the Blight and the woman who saved Amaranthine is worthy of respect, even if she is a mage.” He sighs. “If they have a problem, they can take it up with me. They’re my court. We’ll find a way.” He reaches across to cup her face, needing the contact, the reassurance. “Stay with me?”

She beams at him, not the shadowed thing of before but the one she only uses for him. “I’ll stay,” she says, and in all the nights and mornings after, she does.

 


End file.
